


Idyll

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 08:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17546267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: Q has a secret.  Bond has a secret.  They're both liars, really.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the 00Q Reverse Bang 2018-2019! I was so lucky to get my first choice of art this year, a fascinating photography piece by [00qpidsarrow](https://00qpidsarrow.tumblr.com/); the moment I saw it there was such a clear story to it, and I couldn't wait to explore the dynamic it described. I can only hope that what I've written lives up to such a fantastic prompt!

 

 

At first, the delicate golden light filtering through his lashes doesn’t make any sense.  There’s a distant, dull ringing, and it takes Q an absurdly long time to realise that it’s in his head, that the window has been shaded with a swathe of yellow fabric stapled haphazardly around the frame, that.  He shifts his arms. Behind the piercing ache of his shoulders, there’s the sound of metal skimming metal. He shuffles again, and the quiet rasping repeats. Slowly, the pinch around his wrists registers.

“What the fu—”  Even these few words pound the inside of his skull like rubber mallets.  The groan that escapes him leaves him gasping. No words, then, as he shuffles on the floor until he can prop himself against the wall and take survey of his situation.  

One: he’s bound by the wrists, seated, with just enough slack that his elbows dip with the weight of his arms at roughly chin-height.  There isn’t enough leverage to stand, and just the thought of doing so turns his legs to jelly beneath him. His fingertips are cool and feel hard in a way that worries him slightly; there’s no way of knowing how long he’s been here.

Two: he’s in a toilet.  Tiled, ceramic. There’s a pedestal sink, shockingly cold against his toes when he stretches a leg out to touch the porcelain with his foot.  Too large to be a flat, but small enough that even if he weren’t bound he wouldn’t be able to stretch across the floor without touching two of the walls.  Enough room for a bathtub—five feet? There’s a commode nearby, but far enough it’s clear he’s not meant to be able to use it. He’s here because—why? Because it is a tidy cell, perhaps.

Three: he is—it’s mid-afternoon, from the light in the window, or perhaps it’s early, before noon, and the colour of the shade is altering his perception.  It doesn’t feel like he’s been unconscious more than twelve hours, and he feels as though he remembers the evening before. Remembers—has the sensation of remembering.  His skull feels as though it will split, and now there are klaxons blaring in his bleary mind. He remembers—feels he remembers—something important; something important—it sits at the tip of his tongue, but when he feels for it, he finds himself choking.  It’s pressed against the backs of his teeth; something important.

He isn’t gagged.

Four: he isn’t gagged, so whoever captured—whoever has done this, they don’t consider him dangerous.  Or at least they aren’t afraid of his words—want to know something from him. If he stretches, bites into the tender flesh in the crook of his elbow where it sits in front of his face, he could trigger the tracking device he’s had since he was installed as the head of Q Branch.  He could end this entire situation, could stop it all, and either—that person—either they don’t know this and have made a very silly mistake, or. Or, or, or. Or else they do, and they are taunting him. Bet you won’t.

Bet you won’t.

Slowly, slowly Q’s brain begins to sift through the details.  Someone wants something from him, something important enough that they’ve taken him off the street to—but no, that feels wrong.  Incorrect. He wasn’t snatched; there’s no sensation of struggle or fight in his memory, though when he interrogates the blur directly it is silent, holding its secrets.  He starts again.

Someone wants something from him.  Whatever it is is important enough that they’ve chosen this as the best course of action: kidnapping.  Q knows that there are only two outcomes for kidnappings: the kidnapper is caught or the kidnapped is killed.  He doesn’t know enough yet to place his bets. But someone wants something from him badly enough to play endgame, and.  He doesn’t know. A shiver wracks him, the tile cold with winter chill, a sliver of ice in his heart. He doesn’t know whether they know—his shoulders ache as he sags against the wall—and that’s the most dangerous of all.  If they don’t, he’ll die for nothing; if they do—

It doesn’t bear worrying about.  What does, however, is the fact he needs a piss.  He’s just about to call—after all, what is the point of going without a gag if not to be obnoxious and mouth off?—when the doorknob turns.

He means to, at least.  It’s on the tip of his tongue: “Finally!” or “A minute longer and I’d have made a mess” or even just “You look different today”, just to put his captor on edge though he can’t recall anything, but.

“I.”  There’s nothing more.  Nothing else forms in his mouth, nothing else forms in his brain beneath the howling silence.

“You,” Bond agrees.

“Bloody took you long enough,” Q manages finally, but.  It feels wrong. The curve of Bond’s shoulders, the bob of his throat, the set of his hips.  It feels wrong. “If you’d left me here much longer, I’d have pissed myself.” Bond’s eyes clear, the line between them drawn again.  Corrected.

“And you’d have been cleaning it up yourself, then,” Bond says.  He’s waffling, shifting on the balls of his feet; Q can read him: come closer, change the bindings, let him use the toilet, possibly feed him, or stay away, stay safely out of reach, distant enough that even former friendship can’t warm the air between them.  Bond’s eyes dart to the side, checking memory of his own captivity.

“Like you’d trust me with a mop,” Q says, and it sinks in the air like a lead zeppelin.  Bond’s smile is strained.

“You have a tongue.”  And eight months ago, Q’d have groaned in good-natured disgust, would have turned back to Bond from his desk and told him to get back to work, you lazy sod, surely there are international incidents that need stopping.  And Bond would have laughed and pretended that leaving was agony, that being away from Q was torture, and now Bond has had Q chained up in his bathroom long enough that the tips of Q’s fingers are worryingly numb. Q shakes his wrists to hear the chains rattle.

There’s no way he’d best Bond in a struggle but the man is nothing if not thorough.  Q finds his lead extended, and Bond watches as he fumbles with his flies one-handed. There’s a snide remark tucked inside Q’s cheek, but the blade is sharper on his side than Bond’s and he’s silent.  Every line of Bond’s body screams guilt and confused anger, so Q won’t taunt him yet. He shakes off and tucks himself away, and Bond is ready with a damp cloth.

Q can’t help himself.  “This cell’s got better service than the Ritz,” and Bond’s shoulders go tight, drawn down before Bond forces himself to release them.  He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t have to; his body language is shouting for him, and in a language they both speak—just smoothes the damp towel over Q’s knuckles again.  For a long moment Q wonders what Bond will do, whether he’ll laugh this all off as an elaborate mistake or whether he’s in the bathroom because it will be easiest to clean the blood later.  He’s pliant when Bond guides him back to the spot by the wall, an easy enough prisoner, but the panic wells up in him when it’s clear Bond is leaving. The cuffs are ratcheted around his wrist again and when Bond stands back, he’s watching Q with eyes Q’s never seen before.  He supposes he may be looking back with the same. Bond steps away, headed to the door, but he doesn’t turn, and it isn’t until that lead gaze is broken by the door, just as Bond is nearly gone, that Q finds his tongue in his mouth again.

“Bond,” he calls, and the door stops.  Pauses. Opens again until Bond is watching him, patient, through the crack between the jamb.  Q swallows. “It’s cold in here.”

Bond’s eye disappears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added a chapter to the total, because I can't math, apparently.

There are fingers, sure and strong, just inside the curve of his knee, the ghost sensation of them taunting him as Q slams the back of his head against the wall because of course he would.  Of course he bloody would, and in his memory Bond smiles all smooth and shyly pleased. Hadn’t thought he’d see him again, in the hushed tones of someone letting slip a big lie disguised as a little secret, hadn’t realised how very truly much he’d wanted to until he’d spotted—and are you sure I’m not taking you away from something, Q? you looked as though you were waiting—and.

And Q had bought it full-price, completely willing because he’d been surprised, too.  “I thought you’d gone to—with—” he’d murmured later, a few drinks in him enough to send his self preservation off to enjoy itself somewhere else for a while.  Bond’s lips full and soft and wet with beer and Q had forgot everything behind him to throw away his life for Bond again. Thirsty, with the empty glasses between them to prove it.

All Q can be pleased about now is that he wasn’t sick, though he doesn’t wonder if Bond wouldn’t have let him aspirate his own mess.  He’s still cuffed, at least an hour of spitting rage down his front, when Bond returns. There’s a towel draped casually over his shoulder, and Q’s frigid fingers curl against the towel rod.  The corner of Bond’s mouth ticks up in the corner.

“Having a shower?”  The bland tone doesn’t fool either of them, and Bond’s mouth curls more.

“Thought I would,” Bond says, and Q’s almost angry enough to ignore the twitch of his cock at the thought of Bond stripping off and bathing in front of him.  He’s certainly angry enough to frown at Bond’s smug look, the easy way he presumes. 

“Don’t let me stop you.”  At least the steam would warm the room, though the thought of being damp and cold after sends a finger of ice down Q’s back.  It isn’t dangerously cold in here, not quite yet at least, but he’s stiff in ways that he knows will hurt a lot later, are beginning to hurt now.

The glint of silver in Bond’s hand catches his breath, and when Q drags his eyes to Bond’s, there’s no denying he’s seen.  They both know he wants out of this room; whether Bond plans to use this knowledge as carrot or stick remains to be seen. There are no clues when Bond leans over him; Q tips his chin to the side and Bond’s thigh skims his cheek as the metal cuff around Q’s wrists creak looser and looser.  His hands fall to his lap with the sudden weight of themselves and he finds himself swooning, falling back to the wall as he rubs the pink pinch lines around his wrists. Bond watches. He gives Q just enough time for the largest of the stars to fade from his vision before capturing one shoulder in the palm of his hand to drag Q up to stand.

The next room is simple, the bedroom of someone used to living out of borrowed spaces.  It’s elegant, more personal than Q would have imagined Bond’s place to be, and yet somehow precisely like him.  A double bed, spartan enough to be clearly unshared, sits in the corner, and Q could weep even for the fairly flat pillows and the rumpled duvet.  Instead, he gets the chair—in a hotel, this would have been a vanity chair, perhaps a desk chair, but in Bond’s room it sits to the side of the nightstand looking like it belongs to another room.  Bond doesn’t cuff him again, not straight away, but there isn’t any point in running; Q sits meekly as Bond hunts and finds a flannel from the cupboard to wrap around Q’s wrist before sliding the metal over it.  Each click brings the nubbly fabric tighter until he can barely squirm and flexing his fingers down toward his wrist feels thick.

And then Bond leaves to have a shower.

He isn’t close enough to the window to see out.  There’s a sliver of perfect, cold blue between the curtains, but Q still gets the impression of height.  They’re on the first storey, at least, though clearly Bond’s not worried about him flinging himself from the window, so perhaps a bit further up?  Or remote; it could be that there’s no point in getting out because there’s nowhere to go, though he’d been in Manchester just the night before, or whenever he’d run into Bond.  That’s what had been so surprising about it all: there in the middle of a Mancunian pub, a familiar voice cutting through the words that had been rolling over Q’s shoulders like rainfall.  Familiar face, familiar eyes—Q’s breath catches in his throat. It doesn’t warrant thinking about; a blind man could have seen him mooning over Bond, and scolding himself for such an obvious weakness is like scolding a child, the way his stomach curls up inside him and pouts.

No window, then.  His ankles aren’t bound, though, and that only makes sense because where on Earth would Q even take the chair?  It’s bloody awkward to manoeuver and he catches himself twice, but eventually he finds he can stand, if hunched over and aching in the back and knees.  His body keeps trying to straighten, and if he twists his wrists just the right way, he can go most of the way. It’s easier to turtle, though, and tip the weight of the chair onto the small of his back instead of the backs of his thighs.  He hobbles into the center of the room, but where would he go?

The door is tempting, and for a long moment he considers whether the arms of the chair are too wide to fit through before the thought occurs to him.  He’s certain the chair will wreck the sheets, but honestly, fuck Bond, and any collateral damage is that bellend’s own fault. Q sidles to the bed, squirms his way onto the mattress,  and wriggles until he and the chair both fit neatly in the middle. Nearly curled foetal, he’s asleep almost the moment his head touches the pillow.

He dreams of rain, and of storms, and of the particular colour of snow at sunset.  He dreams of Bond’s hand on his knee again, fingers on his pulse point as his heart beats metallic in the back of his throat.  Q’s fingers twitch and he curls them to his chest, tucks himself tighter, drifts. When consciousness finally settles on his shoulders like featherweight drifts of snow, he’s aware that the chair is gone, that his arms are free, that he’s still bent double like a prawn against the chill of what he suspects is Scotland.  There’s the low gurgle of a steam radiator broken by heavy metallic thumps as it struggles to war the room, and.

“Yes.”  Bond’s voice is low.  Q’d think he was trying not to wake him if he were somebody else, if they weren’t in this position.  Bond continues.

“Manchester.”  A pause. “Why Manchester?”

If Q were a betting man, he’d know the odds.  A conversation about Q; last night’s social activities.  Madeleine Swann; Eve Moneypenny. A social call; being drawn back for one last mission—he shoves the shaking breath back into his chest until it squeaks, the sound muffled under his chin.

“It’s a drive, you know.”  Then, “Well.”

For a long moment, it’s silent.  Bond is thinking, or listening, or perhaps just plotting; Q is praying hard enough that he can feel his teeth grinding.  Say no, he wishes fiercely.

Finally:  “And we’re looking because—?”  Bond listens. It takes hours in Q’s head for Bond to respond.  “I’m afraid you’re on your own with this one, unfortunately. No, no.  If he comes this way—? Scotland. The Highlands. Yes, about six—longer than from London.  No, I understand. I’ll keep an eye out. Yes. Absolutely.”

The call ends a moment or so later, and Q listens as Bond rises from the chair.  He turns the heater on and off, but it does nothing for Q’s sudden chill: no one but Bond knows he’s here.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the editing, this chapter tipped the whole thing into a higher rating. I'm sure no one minds...?

Bond’s bed isn’t cold, but a fine tremor has set up between Q’s shoulder blades.  There’s a creeping sensation in the room—behind him, Bond grunts, then laughs. He’s—and Q’s—Q laughs then, quietly.  The ice in his spine begins to thaw, and he turns, pressing his shoulders flat on the mattress. Bond looks wry, the corner of his mouth hitched in a smile that on anyone else would look unwilling; Q knows, though, that in Bond it’s simply the force of pretending emotion.  Either having them or not, he can’t quite tell which. The bed is soft beneath him.

“You’re quite bendy,” is all Bond says, and Q arches, turns his legs to the side as though he’s doing a jazzercise video, and watches.  It isn’t heat that picks up in Bond’s eyes, but it’s something like enough. It’s something he can work with. 

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t lick his lips or touch his chest or do any of the things that would call another person.  No, instead Q tips his head along the pillow to bare his throat, lets the fingers of his right hand drop until his chest is open, breath quivering in the concave hollow beneath his ribs, until his fingertips can trace the grain of the wooden floors.  Twisted up as he is, it’s not spreading his legs to angle his hips until his knee points at the ceiling—except that it is, clearly it is, and his body language is screaming: “Prey. I am prey. I am weak and I am vulnerable and you make me aware of that.  I do not trust you because I believe you will eat me.”

Of course it works.  Bond steps in, pace slow and precise.  Not nearly to keep from scaring him off; Bond walks as though this is inevitable, and perhaps it is.  Ineffable. Q doesn’t squeak at the heat of him by the bed, the hot of his thigh against the innermost part of Q’s arm where the brush of him is alien and intimate.  It’s a close thing; he’s lucky that the wheeze in his chest, wounded and asthmatic, isn’t audible in the room. Perhaps it is. It’s thundering in his ears.

Bond’s fingers are deliberate as he brushes them against the column of Q’s neck.  He traces the carotid, drags his fingers along the jugular where Q’s pulse has gone rabbit-quick and shaking, scores just the tips of his nails down the length of his windpipe.  Breath gathers, trapped behind Q’s lips, and Bond’s thumb settles in the hollow of his throat as if pressing a button until it gusts out. Only then does Bond look up at Q’s face.

There’s no telling what he sees.  What’s the final flutter of the bird’s wing that draws the cat’s pounce? the twitch of a rabbit’s whisker to a dog’s sharp grin? the flick of a mouse’s tail to an eagle’s swoop?  Small and wild, Q offers himself to be devoured.

Bond’s mouth on his skin is more than he’s ever dreamed he’d get, the press of teeth in the secret place behind his ear strangely pleasant.  He groans, and Bond’s laugh is more breath than sound. Q knows he’s already gone embarrassingly hard where he’s tucked into the only soft part of Bond’s body, the crease where hip and thigh and body join.  It’s okay, though—Bond’s rocking against him, air caught high in his chest and escaping in rough puffs along the line of Q’s collarbone. Perhaps this is how Bond has seduced everyone, Q wonders, because it’s a potent thought, Bond panting and wanting against him.  He shivers and thrusts up into Bond’s grasp.

And then Bond is palming his cock, hot and ready, through the denim of his trousers.  Q feels thick and sticking and overheated, thighs trembling at the touch. He groans, grabs the back of Bond’s collar, leans up into an arch until his back is bowed and shaking.  There are teeth sharp along the thin skin at his neck and wide, firm hips between his legs holding him pinned and accessible. The tips of Bond’s fingers are exploring his bollocks as Bond shoves he heel of his palm against the bulge of Q’s cock, the wrist and lower arm tantalising where they tease the thick curls bared where Q’s trousers and pants have shifted.  Q can smell the musk of himself in the air mingling with Bond’s sweat, heady and feral.

It’s his decision.  It’s what he wants, what he’s wanted for long enough that he can still taste the ghost of longing in the back of his throat, can still feel the jism dried along the cuff of his sleeve after furtive wanks in his office.  Q doesn’t even need to pop the button of his trousers, just shimmies them down with his pants until Bond is staring down at his cock with a sort of distant amusement. For a long second he doesn’t move and Q thinks he’s made a mistake, until it doesn’t matter and Q reaches down to stroke himself, to twiddle the foreskin and nudge it back until Bond’s—until they’re both watching the glossy head appear and disappear between his fingers.

Bond sighs like an air compressor, like a balloon deflating, like some internal pressure leaking out, and then he tugs Q’s hands away, palms wrapped around his ring and index fingers as though he can’t even consider covering Q up with his own hands.  He trips the tip of his nose along the side, and then again with a laugh just to watch it jerk and twitch beneath him again. Q hasn’t showered—feels filthy, two days on the lam and one chained to the wall in Bond’s toilet—but it doesn’t seem to bother Bond, and Q’s heart honestly skips a beat at the first wet-heat swipe of a tongue.  

It isn’t a blowjob, but Bond has licked his cock.  He barely notices the handjob that follows; he performs abominably and rudely, hips pumping up into Bond’s hand until he comes quickly enough that Bond hasn’t had a chance yet to get him undressed.  It’s easy enough then to roll over and follow the map of a dream, to suck at Bond’s cock until he’s groaning and grasping at the back of Q’s head. The only thing that keeps embarrassment away is the quick way Bond comes, too, and the salty taste of it in his mouth.

When he sits back, the look on Bond’s face is softer.  Bond beds his suspects for information, yes, but there’s no denying he’s fonder of them after sex.  It’s what he’s counting on.Q traces his thumb along the line of his lower lip and then lets his hand drop to the crease of his thigh.  It’s casual, obviously a come on; Bond’s tongue darts along the inside of his bottom lip, but his gaze doesn’t break from Q’s face.

“I.”  Q starts.  “Could I have a shower?”

Bond follows him into the bathroom.


	4. Chapter 4

It isn’t Skyfall.  Q’s not quite sure what he expected; it’s cold enough to be Scotland, with a thick layer of snow padding the shapes of the ground into indistinct white lumps, but it isn’t Skyfall—the horizon is all wrong for that, the kirk missing, the trees too close.  He’s still peering through a little gap in the fabric stapled to the window frame when Bond enters the room, wraps his arms around Q’s waist. The tiny hairs along his bare stomach prickle at the touch, but when he turns to Bond, he smiles. Bond’s smile in response is knowing but not cruel with it.

Q lets Bond start the water.  Lets him dial the temperature.  Lets him guide him in, lets him take the soap in hand, lets him touch his body with slick fingers and firm grip.  Bond tips him into the water to rinse, to damp his hair, and scratches his nails across Q’s scalp in a way that would be erotic if it weren’t interrogation; his body doesn’t know he difference, and Q’s back arches, skin shivering all over at the sensation.  Q lets Bond stroke his cock.

Eventually, Bond takes his hand, wraps him in a towel that Q strips off to rub at his hair instead.  The bed is an island in the room; he can imagine he understands all of those women who’ve wrecked themselves on the shore of the man’s sex.  Bond presses him back with the gentle, inexorable force of a wave, and Q sighs, riding. 

Later, sticking and untidy, he lets Bond pet at him.  Bond scratches at his skin in idyl whorls, drawing shapes that Q can’t see with his head tucked along the line of Bond’s arm.  He supposes he should be embarrassed, but instead he is quiet, listening to the roar of Bond’s thoughts. He knows better than to offer his truths; he flicks the edge of his nail along Bond’s nipple instead and lets Bond broach the distance.

“Why Manchester?”

It is and isn’t an easy answer.  Q goes for true. “No one’s paying attention to Manchester.  They’re all worried about Ireland and London right now.”

Bond hums.  And then, “Is it true, then, what Mallory said?”

It’s a time-honoured interrogation technique: tell a small truth to get a larger one.  It’s Q’s turn to hum, the vibration quivering the skin of Bond’s shoulder. He’s let himself relax, and some two years after the last time Q’s seen him, Bond is softer, less hard and ready.  “I don’t know.” It’s true. “I don’t know what he said.”

Bond’s scratching stops, then starts again.  “He said you’d stolen—”

“Ah.”  It’s closer to honest than Q had expected from M.  “I did. Did he say—?”

“Not really, no.”

“Why did you pick me up?  Lock me in your toilet?” Chain me to your wall, Q thinks, but they’re playing sweet now.  He slides his calf along Bond’s, nuzzles in.

“You didn’t reach out,” Bond says instead, “to let me know you were coming.”

“Fairly sure I did.  ‘Oh, oh god, oh James!’”  It’s silly, and the corners of Bond’s mouth turn up.

“You looked like you were waiting for someone.  A partner?”

“Of sorts.  I didn’t expect you to be there.  I expected you to come back, I suppose.  I waited for it for a year. You weren’t dead this time; there wasn’t any reason to stay away.”

Bond sighs, and Q rides the rise of his chest before propping his chin up to peer at him.  “I expected you to come back,” Q confirms.

“Wanted?” Bond asks, and Q frowns at him.

“Let’s not pretend.  It’s cruel.”

“It is,” Bond admits.  “I knew you did.”

“I knew you knew.  I figured it was one of the reasons you didn’t.”  Didn’t come back, didn’t reciprocate, didn’t—it’s getting too close to still-tender feelings, and Q lays back down.  Beneath the cup of his ear, Bond’s heart glugs along. It takes a moment, but Bond’s scratching continues.

“A partner,” Bond says finally.  It’s a pass—they’ll pretend they didn’t drift off topic.  Back to interrogation as usual.

“I was leaving.  I know you know that.”

Bond pauses, breathes.  Perhaps he hadn’t, and Q frowns.  “Going where?”

“Better if you don’t know.  The point’s not to have to come back, right?”  It’s a daunting thought: leave and never come back.  Q shivers, and Bond’s arm tightens around him.

“Did you steal—?”

“I did.  I told you I did.  It wasn’t—a man like Mallory—” or even, perhaps, he means Six, or the whole of the British government—not even Q knows, just that he had thought one day of the power—

“I tracked you,” he says instead.  The words are caught behind his lips, stinging as bees.  “Every day for a month, and then periodically for weeks. It always told me where you were.”

“Smart blood?”

“I had a Les Mis crush on you: Eponine, pining.  I’d have thrown myself on the barricade for you.”  It’s apropos of nothing, the whole truth of it wrapped in words.  “Did you know?”

Bond is quiet.  There’s no telling what he’s thinking, until.  “I’d have to cut my heart out. Yes?”

“Yes,” Q says.  He wonders if Bond has already found the jump drive in his coat pocket, if he’s already sent it back and damned them both.  Bond is still, eyes on the ceiling.

“Melrose.”  It’s quiet, then stronger: “Did you know?”

“No,” Q says, “not at the time.”  Bond hadn’t even taken him as far as Edinburgh or Glasgow.  He’s barely still in Scotland. His heart thumps.

It isn’t a question of staying; it isn’t safe for Bond if Q stays and Q can’t afford a messy trail of breadcrumbs behind him.  Q dresses, meanders through Bond’s house like a ghost, touching everything his fingertips can graze. There’s more of Bond here, in the whisky on the table in the living room, the hunting rifle propped beside the door to the garden.  Bond makes him tea while they wait for his cab and ends up pressing him against the edge of the sink and sucking a lazy love bite into the side of his throat.

It’s misplaced affection, Bond overwhelmed with loyalty, but Q will take it.  When the cab arrives he kisses Bond in the doorway, quick and bright and goodbye, and then he watches in the back window as Bond disappears.

There’s a famous old abbey in this town, Q remembers.  They don’t pass it on the way to the train, but he thinks of it anyway: big, hollow windows.  A ruin, formidable despite, or perhaps because of, the grand nature of what they used to be. It once held the heart of Scotland, or so he remembers distantly.  It’s idle trivia.

His phone chimes.  Once he gets where he’s going, he’ll need a new rig, something powerful enough to manage everything properly, but for now, the phone will do.  All of the dots are still in London; he has a few weeks yet before they fade, purged from the body and gone for good. Still. Enough time to get where he’s going.


End file.
